A Little Black Kitten
by steelgray
Summary: A fluffy oneshot of a very bored consulting detective.


**Ok, you guys, this is confessions time. This is my first ever Sherlock fanfiction. PLEASE tell me if I did something really stupid, okay? Otherwise, enjoy!**

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It was as calm a day as one could expect at 221B Baker Street. The occupants of the flat were for once quiet. No yelling, no experiments, no mad rush of footsteps in the hall.

This had quite a lot, of course, to do with the fact that the occupants of the building were out for the day. Mrs. Hudson was out calling on friends, John fighting the chip and pin machine at the grocery, and Sherlock...

Oops. Sherlock Holmes was the only one home, and he didn't fancy it in the least.

He laid on the couch, holding an old case file above his head, poking fiercely at it with a No. 2 pencil, freshly sharpened, eraser intact. If John had been home, it would've been stopped; Sherlock could hear him now, speaking in his 'grown-up' voice, the one that Sherlock so detested, telling him that he was going to poke his eye out, and that he, John Watson, wouldn't help him if he did such an idiotic thing as that.

Rubbish.

Sherlock knew exactly where the good doctor stood on subjects such as his own health, having deleted many a lecture on that general topic, so many, in fact, that he'd lost count. If he did stab his eye out, John would be there in an instant, rushing him to the Emergency.

That would happen...if he were here right now.

Sherlock stubbornly pushed away the thought of loneliness at John's absence. He was gone all the time, for goodness' sakes! He was a doctor, and everyone knew that doctors, even part-time ones, didn't keep the same hours as your ordinary Joe at the Tesco.

And besides, consulting detectives, especially Sherlock, didn't get lonely. It was simply not factual.

"Bored!" He exclaims, like any time there's a dull period, with no crimes to solve, no murderers to chase on the rooftops of London in the dead of night. But this particular word lacks the flavour that it usually possesses, not coming out sharp and clear and strong, but soft. Mumbled. Weak.

And if there was one thing Sherlock knew about himself, it was that he was not weak. So what could have possibly caused this...this feeling?

If John had been home, (He wasn't) he would've tried to make small talk, pointing out that he hadn't eaten in the four days that it had taken to solve the case (The soup had been poisoned, and the chef had possessed an immunity. It had been very obvious.) and tried to shove tea and takeaway into his hands. He would've suggested checking his website, or watching telly (even though they both knew that it was crap) or simply let Sherlock sulk. Even just letting him sulk would've been acceptable, because there was something different about sulking when someone else knew that you were sulking, instead of just sulking by yourself, as you feel even more l-lonely when you realise that you are.

"Bored!" He says again, trying to inject more vigour into the word, make it mean something. A quick check of John's laptop (password: Mistletoe) tells him that 1.) it's at least another half hour until John gets home, and 2.) The man in question had been searching for Christmas gifts online. Sherlock would tell him that he loved the new green scarf that he'd picked out for the detective when he got home.

It's the tiny sound that he hears that makes the man pause on his way to search for John's gun.

Meow.

It's so faint that Sherlock thinks that he's imagining the pitiful murmur, until he hears it again.

Meooooww.

The second time it's much longer, and, out of sheer boredom, the consulting detective opens the outer door of the flat, ignoring the fluffy whiteness that ravages his body to look down.

On their front doorstep sits a tiny kitten, thin, shivering, its vibrant green, feline eyes looking up at the man with pleading.

Sherlock looks down at the creature in shock, not quite processing what's happening, even though his brain is, quite clearly, telling him that he should close the door. This kitten isn't his problem.

The pitiful yowl shouldn't bother him, shouldn't change his resolve, but as the kitten curls around his ankle, he sighs, scooping up the animal and closing the door.

He sets the dirty kitten in the sink, and, with another long-suffering sigh, wondering why in the world he's doing this, he disentangles the spray hose of the sink, showering it down on the small feline.

He doesn't have anything specifically animal-designed, so, after examining the ingredients on the hand soap John's bought, squirts it on the cat, working up a soapy lather.

The cat, to his surprise, purrs in the warmth of the bath, its painfully thin body tiny in Sherlock's hands, delicate.

Rinsing off the kitten, he sees that it actually has a shiny, black coat, its tiny claws sweeping at him as he sets it on the counter and towels it off.

The kitten now resembles a black pouf, its fur sticking up in every direction as it leaps off the counter and up to the arm of the couch, curling up there.

Sherlock sighs, picking up the mobile he had been feeling too lazy to pick up earlier, and sent out a text.

**John?-SH**

**What? I'm shopping.-JW**

**Really? I hadn't noticed.-SH**

**No need to be sarcastic. Case?-JW**

**No. Could you bring home some kitten food?-SH**

**Experiment, then?-JW**

**Of a sort.-SH**

**Well...it's not acid. I'll get some.-JW**

**Excellent.-SH**

He pocketed his phone, having at last found something to do-observe the cat.

When John came home, arms laden with bags, he was shocked by what he saw, and wondered briefly if he was hallucinating.

It was Sherlock, curled up on the couch, fast asleep, a very Sherlock-like kitten sprawled out on his lap.

John grinned as he went to put away the groceries.

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**And, end! Please tell me what you thought in the reviews thingamajigger down there, or favorite this, and I will gladly write more Sherlock fics!**

**Steelgray x Brenda**


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